


Facet Menagerie

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, New Relationship, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Prompt Fic, unusual expressions of affection, various levels of domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:33:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 15,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Non-chronological moments in the unusual relationship of the residents of 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scarves and Soon Dubu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine your OTP are walking down a snowy path together and Character A notices that Character B has forgotten their scarf. Character A removes their scarf and wraps it around Character B’s neck."

John crossed his arms over his chest, bare hands tucked under his armpits. He shivered. Coughed and squinted across the street, snow blurring his line of sight. Sherlock requested — demanded, but there was sincerity in his voice — that John keep watch from the bus stop directly in view from the shop window, should the situation escape his control.

Heaving a great sigh, breath steaming in the December air, John watched Sherlock sweep to the door, turn sharply to motion between the woman behind the counter and one of the customers. She bristled and jabbed a finger toward the door. Checking his watch, John slipped his hands back into his pockets. Half three. Waiting in the cold, neck and fingers exposed, he tucked his chin closer to his chest. Seated on the bench, he reassured himself it would not be much longer. His mobile chimed. John gripped the mobile tightly within his pocket, but refused to withdraw his hand back into the insistent snowfall. Ten minutes passed. From across the street, the bell on the shop door rang and the woman unceremoniously forced Sherlock from the landing. 

“Go ahead, call the Yard! I know a real badge when I see one!”

Face pinched in frustration, Sherlock watched her retreat. Turned to John. Eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. A coil of guilt curled somewhere between his breastbone and his gut. Blood rushing to his ears, John shakily pulled the phone free to view the screen.

_Assistance would be appreciated. —SH_

“I see your hands remain functional, yet I wonder at the reason for your lack of response.”

Looming over him, collar turned up against the wind, Sherlock had his own mobile in hand, texting furiously. John clasped his hands together, blowing on his knuckles. His shoulders ached in protest at having been hunched for so long. He thought back to the flat, his gloves and scarf draped over the mantle where they resisted drying out from the freezing rain the night before.

“Right. No. Sorry, bit not good.” John rose from his seat, stamping the pavement to warm his legs. “Wrong place?”

“Right location,” Sherlock corrected. He turned on heel. “Wrong time. The woman behind the register is incompetent. Judging from the calendar near the rear door and the diminishing stock on the shelves, our suspect should arrive for his evening closing shift in approximately four hours. I’ve informed Lestrade. I have an experiment due for rotation. Why do you keep doing that?”

The sudden shift in conversation gave him pause. Stopped at a corner, waiting for the light to change, John turned to see Sherlock watching his hands. Fingers curled around the collar of his jacket, he tugged the fabric as far as it gave to cover more of his neck. His throat tingled with the false warmth of numbness.

“Doing what?”

“Repetition, John.”

“’m cold. It tends to happen in the winter.”

Crossing at the intersection, John jammed his fists back into the warmth of his pockets. Coughed again, an abrupt clearing of the throat.

“Weather last night was miserable. My gloves never dried. Same with my—”

A firm grip latched onto his upper arm. Spun him around. He started as, with a look of pure concentration (brow furrowed), Sherlock wound the cashmere scarf around his neck, tucking the tasseled ends into the open throat of his jacket. Nodding to himself, Sherlock continued as if he had not stop ped. John jogged to keep pace. Their elbows knocked together. Adjusting the scarf to cover his chin, he glanced at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. His cheeks were flushed, yet he said nothing.

“Should I expect to come back later tonight?”

“No, I trust the Yard should prove capable of apprehending a simple case of pharmaceutical theft,” Sherlock admitted. “Dinner?”

“Will you actually eat?”

“I enjoyed the soon dubu from the Korean takeout Molly suggested.”

“You have leftovers in the refrigerator.”

Compacted snow crunched underfoot. John adjusted the scarf again. The tangled fringe brushed against his ears, sending a shiver through his relaxing shoulder muscles. Sherlock heaved a sigh, breath ruffling the curls draping across his forehead.

“Tofu is . . . difficult to reheat successfully. Depending on time between initial preparation and cooling, the inconsistencies of the coating on the pan your prefer to use, and the particular ratio of egg to seafood—”

“I’ll call when we get in,” John offered in defeat.

Sherlock made a pleased noise at his side and hooked his fingers into John’s pocket, gloved fingertips brushing against his wrist.


	2. Toast and Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine your OTP in the morning. Person A is cooking breakfast. Person B groggily shambles into the kitchen to find that Person A has already prepared them their everyday morning drink just the way they like it."

Sherlock prodded at the mess of egg whites and yolks, salt, and pepper in the pan. Crisping around the edge of the pan. He frowned. Scraped at the eggs with a slotted spatula. Folding them over and over and over until the pan was full of what resembled scrambled rather than questionably fried eggs. Already on the table, carefully covered with a mixing bowl (rarely used for actually baking or cooking and might prove useful for testing the pH level of soil samples from various parks), was an extravagant amount of toast. What began as one slice for each of them turned into an extra for John before escalating into observations on the settings of the toaster and the gradient of char produced.

He found himself at a loss as to why he was making breakfast. It was hardly because he felt like eating. Simply because he rarely saw need to stop for meals did not mean he was unable to cook for himself. John seemed more observant of that fact than most others did. Many of the Yarders. Donovan and Anderson. He was perfectly capable of making meals for himself, although baking ended more favorably due to the process mirroring chemistry in the intricacy of their combinations, yet he found it less tedious to order takeout.

Taking a sip from his tepid coffee, a specialty blend upon which he was developing an indulgent dependency, he held the liquid in his mouth. Bright. Slight citrus. Swallow. Spicy finish. The beans had been a gift from a grateful barista after clearing her name of money laundering charges. John failed to notice the complexities of the roast, claiming it was “nice, really, just not as dark as I usually take it” and continued to drink his coffee black (no sugar). Moving the pan from the hob, he registered the telltale sounds of John making his way downstairs.

With a muffled yawn, John passed through the kitchen, into the hall. Shut the bathroom door. Sherlock had approximately three minutes. Kettle on. He heard the toilet flush. Water boiled. Striped mug and tea from the cupboard. Milk from the refrigerator. Just as he dropped the teabag in to steep, arms wrapped around his waist. Body still warm from sleep and breath cool from mint toothpaste, John clung to him, chest pressed along the curve of his spine.

“What’s all this for?”

“It’s Sunday,” Sherlock answered noncommittally.

“Right. Makes sense I s’pose—” He yawned again. “Nothing on, then?”

“Not yet, it seems.” Sherlock moved to clean a space for bowls on the counter. John’s cheek between his shoulder blades, stubble rasping slightly against his dressing gown. “Judging from the woman’s voice, Mrs Hudson’s cousin Janice is visiting. Mycroft has a meeting with the United Nations, which he is unaware that I know of—”

John reached around Sherlock’s arm to grab his mug.

“—and I solved Lestrade’s latest case while you were asleep.”

“What’s on the table?”

“Ah. I noticed your jar of preserves is nearly empty so I made toast.”

A pause. An appreciative hum. “Good tea. You’re getting much better.”

“Please,” he scoffed, swaying as John took a step backward, leading him. “It’s hardly a difficult process.”

The sound of John’s mug settling on the table. The mixing bowl overturned to rest on its base.

“Sherlock.”

Spatula in hand, he waited for John to finish his thought.

“Why are there _sixteen_ slices of toast on this plate?”

“It was an exp—”

“I should have known. This one though,” he teased, his voice laughing. “I don’t know if it still counts. As bread, I mean. It’s completely black.”

Sherlock escaped John’s grip to trade the spatula for his coffee. Paused at the look of fondness spreading across John’s face. He took a drink. John mirrored him, eyes crinkling with a smile as he swallowed.

  



	3. Sketches and Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine your OTP drawing something for one another."

After a rare case, which occupied their every waking moment for just over a week (involving six instances of disarmed security alarms, one child witness, an unsuccessful attempt to sneak away for a nicotine break, and three pulled muscles), John was not surprised to find Sherlock asleep on the couch. Mobile cradled to his chest, Sherlock slept on as John tidied the sitting room. Mugs littered the end table, mantelpiece, and landing to the kitchen. A discarded pair of muddy loafers. An envelope of pressed flowers. Sherlock’s Moleskine and pencil. Medium-soft graphite. Eraser blackened slightly.

John sat back in his armchair, journal in hand, and toyed with the elastic band. Snapped it against the cover. Tapped the pencil along the leather spine. Glancing to Sherlock’s sleeping form, he steeled himself. Carefully slipped the elastic free. Let the notebook fall open on his lap. Irregular rows of written documentation across the unlined paper. Meticulous columns of Suzhou numerals. Shaky print from taking notes in moving vehicles. A makeshift family tree with the siblings involved in a systematic murder streak. Thumbing through a detailed explanation of identifying various black teas from the residual scent on the individual’s breath, John paused. Slipped the ribbon bookmark between his pages.

Loops and rough outlines formed the haphazard shapes of a ticket stub, John’s cane, a cat, the profile of a woman with dark hair, two bottles containing identical pills — multiple arrows and notes surrounded that particular half of the page — and the knocker to their street door. John suddenly felt guilty. Interspersed within the professional notes were visual records of clues, triggers to revelation, and doodles borne of ennui. These had been secrets kept from him. Fully intending to close the journal and think no more of the incident, he recognized the dark outline sketched onto the paper beneath.

Offset from the center of the page, tipped to the upper left corner, was a carefully depicted replica of his scar. Clear throat. Look to see Sherlock still asleep. Every detail recorded in frightening accuracy. Implicit intimacy. Where the prior pages had been written over, erased, and struck through, the solitary illustration occupied its space unhindered. Sherlock rendered the craterous exit point in stark gravity. Puckered flesh. The boundary between old and new skin. Rather than diagram and label John’s most hidden evidence of Afghanistan, Sherlock simply penciled in _‘John – left anterior deltoid’_ and the date.

He realized it was not a drawing _for_ him as such, but John found himself feeling obligated to return the favor. Sherlock would accuse him of weakening to sentiment. Still asleep. One hand clenched and relaxed over the mobile. Taking a deep breath, John touched graphite to paper and drew from memory as Sherlock had. He started with the wispy hairs of an eyebrow, momentarily celebrating his left-handedness which prevented him from smearing Sherlock’s sketch. Paused. Chuckled to himself. Carefully dotted in the two most prominent moles and the smattering of freckle-like scars (John came home from a conference to find Sherlock attempting to tend to his own wounds and refusing to admit what caused the distinctive markings) across his temple. Before he could consider adding further to his contribution, a cough and a drowsy intake of breath came from the couch.

“Let me see.”

John flinched. Slapped the journal shut, pencil trapped between the pages. Cold fear settled in his skin as Sherlock swung his feet to the floor and extended an arm. Fingers curled expectantly.

“It’s not— I thought—”

“You thought I was asleep and would be less inclined to hinder your cleaning. Although the reasoning behind your decision to supplement my notes with your handiwork was nothing more than curiosity,” he yawned, voice modulating as he stretched, “I still find myself at a loss as to why you insist on hiding it from me. It _is_ my notebook. I’m going to find it eventually.”

“Right. Well, it isn’t finished. I guess.”

Pushing off from the coffee table, Sherlock crossed the room to stand behind John’s armchair. His elbows pressed into the cushion, displacing the stuffing slightly. Rolling his eyes, John opened the Moleskine to his page. Heard Sherlock exhale sharply.

“Excellent. Nearly exact. Only . . .” Sherlock leaned over John, long arms braced on the back of the char, and reached for the pencil. Tucked it into John’s hand. Indicated a point an infinitesimal distance from the edge of a smattering of scar-markings. “One more here.”

Shading in the tiny spot, angling the side of his hand away from the graphite, John waited. Sherlock pointed again. Another spot added. After two more embellishments, Sherlock hummed his approval and disappeared into the kitchen. Glancing between the two drawings, John adjusted the ribbon place marker, printed _‘Sherlock – left supraorbital ridge’_ and the date, and deposited the journal on Sherlock’s chair.


	4. Waking and Wood Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine your OTP coming to bed at different times after a late night. Person B creeps in, tired, stiff, and cold, trying not to wake Person A, who’s been tucked in for quite a while. Person B reaches out and hauls Person A into bed, drops the blankets over them, and curls up around them until they both fall asleep again."

Solid closure of the street door. Roll over in bed. Duvet pulled tight around shoulders. Face pressed in the ravine between his and his pillows. Sherlock struggled to stay within his REM cycle, but the pull of John’s return proved stronger. Bundling the sheets closer under his chin, he shifted until he was nearly sprawled across the entire bed. Warming the cool fitted sheet by kicking his feet aimlessly (the thread count might prove useful is solidifying the alibi of the wife in the adultery trial). John would not be pleased. Sherlock felt something like resignation.

The sheets smelled familiar. Like home. He wrinkled his nose at the insipid thought. Reconsidered how accurate the statement was. Pressing his face more firmly into John’s pillow (shoes being kicked off near the hallway to the second bedroom), he inhaled slowly. Shampoo. Laundry detergent. Sweat. The unnamable scent of John, a cohesive mixture of breakfast tea and the lingering base notes of the cologne received as a gift, but rarely worn. John’s tread up the landing staircase. Not barefooted. The flat proved too chilly to go without socks.

Against his will, Sherlock felt his face soften when John appeared in the gap of the door, hanging ajar. Mouth and eyebrows tilted up in drowsy relief. John mirrored him. Apologetic.

“I woke you up.”

“That goes without saying. Harry kept you back, I see.” He grimaced at the drowsy lisp and the harsh “k” (prominent voiceless velar stop). “It seems things went well. Your mother arrived late, but in good time.”

John shed his jumper, shirt, and belt. Rolled the leather around his hand. Crossed the room to deposit everything into the dresser to be sorted in the morning. Thumbs hooked idly within his belt loops. The duvet rustled slightly as he curled into himself.

“Come to bed.”

“Three minutes.” John wove their fingers together. Kissed Sherlock’s knuckles. His lips were cold and chapped. “Right back.”

Blinking in the streetlight filtering through the blinds, he ducked back to the landing and descended the stairs once more. Sherlock yawned, tears pricking his eyes. Two minutes and thirty-six seconds later, John shucked out of his jeans at the foot of the bed, toeing off his socks. Patted Sherlock’s hip.

“I’ve got to get in. Budge up,” he whispered, voice reverent and low.

Sherlock rolled to his back, drawing the duvet with him — he could feel the generated heat escaping into the air — as John perched on the edge of the mattress. His lips formed the pliant shape of a “w” before he slipped to Sherlock’s side. Hauled Sherlock to his chest. Blankets pulled over shoulders. Arms and legs tangled together. Sherlock’s hands warm against John’s cheeks. John’s toes cold against Sherlock’s shins. He let out a breathy giggle as Sherlock flinched away with a protesting hiss.

“What happened to ‘my side of the bed’ and all that?” John’s breath ruffled the curls at Sherlock’s ear. Hairs raising on the back of his neck.

“It seemed more effective to leave this side free for minimal conflict at your arrival.”

“You were waiting,” John corrected, fingers tracing the valleys of his ribcage through his shirt.

His face warmed, but he gave no retort. Sniffled. Smelled John. Wood smoke. Thyme. Cold. Chanel No. 5 and cheap red wine. Breakfast tea. Sherlock exhaled. Felt John’s hand flatten against the concave slope above his hip. Fell back into his REM cycle.


	5. Cats and Conferences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine your OTP adopting a cat."

“Sherlock, it’s just for the weekend.”

“If Molly knew she would be attending a conference, she might have considered waiting to buy . . . it.”

“His name is Toby,” John sighed, drawing away from the cat as it jumped up to his armrest. The cat settled pleasantly near John’s fingers. Gold eyes narrowed at Sherlock. Tail flicking. “Besides, she felt awful. Apologized at least seven times before I reminded her she had a cab waiting.”

Waving a dismissive hand, Sherlock sidestepped a ceramic bowl filled with dry food in fish and heart shapes. Retrieved his work gloves from the table. Relit his Bunsen burner. John rested a hand tentatively between Toby’s ears, scratching at the tabby stripes and streak of white fading back toward the cat’s undulating shoulders. Smiled to himself. Flipped open the newspaper spread across his knee.

“You seem well acquainted with him,” Sherlock called from the kitchen. Metal tapping against glass. Liquid transferred between vials.

“Molly promised he would behave.”

As if aware the conversation addressed him, Toby stretched, tail flicking John across the nose. Jumped to the rug. Tongue swiped across a paw. Rubbed his chin. Stared expectantly into the kitchen. John rubbed his nose absently, watching the cat bound over the landing to rub against Sherlock’s ankles.

“I hardly perceived you as a cat person,” Sherlock continued, glaring down at the cat winding about his feet. Happily depositing tabby hairs on Spencer Hart trousers. “Then again, you did so well with Sekhmet.”

John snorted, brushing the armrest clean (tiny claw marks pulled individual thread loops loose), and reached for the toys Molly left. Brightly colored fabric mice. He lobbed one toward the narrow steps. It gave a pleasant _squeak_ as it bounced. Toby mewled, trimmed claws skittering against the lino. Swatted the stuffed rodent across the sitting room. Lowered to the floor. Slunk toward his inanimate prey menacingly.

“Right. _That cat_ was vicious.”

“But no less feline.”

“Toby has quite a bit more hair. And hasn’t clawed me. Yet.”

“For both our sakes, I hope Molly has trained him to some degree.”

“He stays off counters and out of sinks. Which reminds me. I put his litter box in the spare room because—”

“For God’s sake, John, I had an experiment going!”

“—because I didn’t want it in the bathroom. You always have an experiment going!”

“Did you at least record the amount of growth in the three plant samples marked with red?”

“I had ten minutes to tidy up—”

“That was three weeks worth of da—!”

A yowl interrupted their disagreement (it certainly had not reached the volume of their first row). Sitting at Sherlock’s feet, paw tapping insistently against his leather shoes, Toby prodded the mouse with his nose.

Stooping to collect the toy, Sherlock turned it over in his hand. John cleared his throat. Anticipated the worst — some makeshift inclination to test the material’s resistance to fire — and waited for Sherlock to react. Toby nipped at Sherlock's exposed shoelaces.

“What now?” Sherlock glanced between John and the cat.

“He must think you’re the leader,” John suggested. “Or that you’re rubbish at feeding yourself.”

Sherlock moved to pocket the mouse and received a shrill meow for his efforts. He dropped the toy with a shout. Toby dove between his legs, batted the mouse toward the refrigerator, clamped his teeth around the stuffed body, and returned to Sherlock. Dropped the toy. Tapped Sherlock’s foot.

“Or he’s playing fetch . . .”

Head thrown back to scrutinize Sherlock, Toby jumped to his feet as the mouse was thrown with force into the sitting room. Claws skittered across the lino. _Squeak._ “Dead” mouse presented before Sherlock. Throw. A pleased meow. John set his newspaper aside to watch Sherlock play with the animal from which he seemed initially determined to remain detached. Eventually Toby slunk back to the kitchen, mouse left by the fireplace. Shifting his chair, Sherlock bent at the waist to retrieve the cat and deposited the pliant mass of muscle and fur onto his lap. Resumed his tedious observations and note taking. John resumed his reading, shaking his head in disbelief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon appearance of Toby in [Molly's February 2nd blog entry](http://mollyhooper.co.uk/blog/02february).


	6. Humility and Holding Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine your OTP sitting in silence. Person A looks at Person B and smiles. Person B looks away, blushing while muttering about “that idiotic grin” on the other’s face. Person A then laughs and takes Person B’s hand into theirs, interlacing their fingers. Person B is tense at first before they slowly relax into the small sign of affection."

Lestrade insisted they stay until questioning was finished. Repeated denials of her involvement in a drug smuggling ring (packets of unmarked pills sewn into the stomachs of plush animals — predictable, dated, an insult to his skills) did nothing to negate her general state of paranoia, fatigue, and unease due to vertigo. She proved exhaustive. Sergeant Donovan left the room with a flourish. Deemed the woman uncooperative. Borderline sociopathic. Gave Sherlock a pointed glare. Crossed her arms over her chest.

Sherlock mirrored her, commenting to John on the combination effect of her hair pulled back and the earrings dangling against her neck. Going out later. Not Anderson. Drinks at the pub. Meeting a man four years her senior for the third date. Donovan flushed and turned on heel.

“Was that necessary?” John chided him, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

Reclaiming his seat, Sherlock offered a paper cup of over-brewed black coffee to John. Added a third sugar to his own. “Of course it was.”

John coughed into the crook of his elbow. Sherlock offered him a sugar packet. Felt satisfaction at his foresight to predict John’s reluctant acceptance. As John watched the crystals dissolve, Sherlock craned his neck. Glimpsed Donovan.

“New shirt. Pressed. A bolder colour than her usual choice. Even her makeup is different. Dark eyeliner emphasizing the shape and color of her eyes. Hair pulled back from her face. Those earrings were a gift. Expensive but not designer. If she had bought them herself, she might have drawn more attention to them in the company of the receptionist. Donovan wants the recognition, but none of Anderson’s scorn.

“She put an end to the relationship, not him. Notice the set of her shoulders. That’s pride more than defensive cowering. She’s gone to the effort of, how do you say it, “dolling herself up” but no one noticed. No one _had_ noticed. Tonight is significant. So, to answer your question, it was necessary because presented a significant amount of nonverbal cues suggesting she desired the attention.”

He held his gaze when Donovan noticed he had been watching. Rather than respond, she busied herself suddenly. Her fingers strayed to the metal teardrop hanging from her earlobe. Anderson, on the other hand, turned his nose up. Stalked away.

“You. Civil with Donovan,” John chuckled. “I never thought I’d see it.”

“Drink your coffee,” he scoffed, taking another sip. Despite the burnt aftertaste, the drink was pleasantly hot (a rarity for Yard coffee).

Waiting. Settling into comfortable silence. Sherlock was in no rush. Lestrade’s proficiency with paperwork was admirable. His habit of doling the responsibility to any number of constables in order to handle Sherlock’s “misconduct” on his watch — the only certain way to identify the contents of the suspect’s stomach in that particular case had been to administer a purging agent through subterfuge; it was a miracle they allowed him near the coffee pot after the incident — was admirable in its unexpected intimidation. He heard the woman shout. Cursing.

He glanced at John. Coffee halfway to his parted lips. Muscles tugging pleasantly to reach his eyes and soften his features. John froze. Noticed Sherlock staring. His cheeks colored. Whispered (in a poorly hushed voice) something about taking that “indecent, idiotic grin off your face before someone sees” but did nothing to hide his own smile. Mirrored, empty coffee cups cradled in dominant hands, Sherlock twisted his wrist and quickly laced their fingers together. John’s hand clenched around his.

“No one can see.” Sherlock swilled the saturated, bitter grounds in the bottom of his cup. “It would hardly be shocking.”

Lestrade emerged from the office where the woman was escorted out by another sergeant. Lifted a manila folder brimming with lined paper and brightly colored scraps. John stiffened — elbow locking and fingers clutching tighter — as Lestrade’s eyes dropped to their clasped hands swinging in the gap between their chairs. Adjusted his grip on the folder. Waved them to the door without comment. Sherlock felt the tension rolling from John’s shoulders as he exhaled shakily. Gave him a wry smile. Relaxed his white-knuckled grip and momentarily leaned against Sherlock before tipping forward, tugging Sherlock to his feet as well.


	7. Armchairs and Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine your OTP just sitting in a room when suddenly Person A says, “God, do I love you,” in an ever so casual way."

One hour and twenty-four minutes prior, Sherlock received a tip from his impressive network of contacts regarding an unauthorized firearms dealer. Forty-three minutes after that, John grabbed the collar of Sherlock’s coat at the last second to prevent him from tumbling into traffic while texting Lestrade the location of the warehouse. Sixteen minutes later, they found themselves involved in an altercation. Now, John was slumped in his armchair. Wheezing with adrenaline-fueled giggles (he noticed Sherlock’s mouth quirk at the onset of the habitual sound).

Coat unzipped, he tossed his gloves to his lap. Ran a hand over his face. Swallowed a fresh burst of laughter at the state of Sherlock’s hair.

“You look like an unruly mop,” he groaned, tipping forward to remove his shoes.

Sherlock made an aborted reach for his scalp. Fingers curled and relaxed at his ears. Hands fell to his sides. Unraveled his scarf from the haphazard looping knot around his throat. At the familiar noise of Sherlock collapsing into his chair, John glanced up (through his fringe — nearly time for a trim) to meet a smug grin.

“Says the one who got hung up on the fence.”

“Right. Right. I see,” John snorted, tossing a glove at Sherlock who caught it without breaking eye contact. “Someone else had a bit of a running start. Might I remind you I went back for your mobile?”

Pulling his knees to his chest, Sherlock fished said phone from his pocket. Scraped a fingernail over a bit of grime on the screen. Proceeded to scroll through a menu, which lit up his face with the dim glow of the electronic interface. John watched Sherlock nestle further into his chair, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from their escape with a burst of gunfire at their heels. Faint bruising mottled the soft edge of his jaw line. Blood speckled the shell of one ear. One trouser leg was streaked with sawdust.

“Thank you. By the way.”

Hands clasped in his lap, John shrugged noncommittally.

“It was just your phone.”

“The surveillance man you knocked out weighed fourteen stone.”

“Well—”

“He was armed.”

“They all w—”

“And I could easily replace a mobile...”

Sherlock’s hesitant admission made something twist within his chest. Eyes downcast, hair curled around his ears, eyelashes flicking with the speed of his reading, Sherlock folded one leg in, knees propped on the sturdy armrests. John felt his throat working to produce a response before his frontal lobe (Broca’s area) recognized the syllables.

“God, do I love you.”

Both feet dropped to the floor. Loud in the sudden quiet. Still worrying the glove in his lap, John waited for Sherlock to counter with an evasive deflection or silent retreat. Both were his response to John’s first abrupt declaration, which he later apologized for in his own manner by requesting his laptop from the kitchen and commenting on his attraction to John's laugh lines (John received a tentative kiss after the rushed confession and Sherlock had seemed mollified).

Sherlock’s face seemed at war with itself. Lips curled at the corners, pursed slightly, philtrum prominent above his cupid’s bow. Spots of colour highlighted his cheeks. Fingers curled around the mobile in question. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the glove back. It landed neatly on John’s forearm. Shrugging out of his jacket, John laid it over the back of his chair. Dropped the gloves to the seat. Stalked over to Sherlock and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, one hand curled within his riotous hair.

He started when Sherlock pulled away. Before he could protest, Sherlock rose slightly, spine uncurling from his atrocious posture, to press his lips firmly to John’s. Cold noses and pressure of teeth through lips. John’s fingers tightened at the base of Sherlock’s skull. With a throaty sound of contentment, Sherlock sat back and chuckled. Bracketed John’s knees with his own.


	8. Webcams and Weimar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine your OTP in different countries, and Person A staying up late just to see Person B on webcam."

Winter in the flat was comfortable. Warm when Sherlock felt inclined to light the fireplace. Warm when Sherlock came to bed, wrapped in cotton pyjamas and silk dressing gowns. Warm when fingers, feet, and thighs were cold, and lips and hands encouraged blood to heat the skin. Without Sherlock, it was dull. John woke alone, ate breakfast alone, waited for the casual morning kiss (it never came), and went to the clinic hoping for a message of any sort. He had volunteered to go to Germany with Sherlock — an entire extortion ring would not be easy to dissolve alone — but had been determinedly refused. Instead, John rode with Sherlock to the airport, gave his hand a squeeze, and threatened to bin his experiments if he did not hear an update at least once over the course of the case.

Sequestered within his office three days later, John endured the tedium of nervous mothers and their phlegmy children. A man developing asthma due to his experience in damp working conditions. Two ear infections. A young boy having an allergic reaction not to the peanut butter in his sandwich but the strawberry jam. As his final patient shut the door behind her, scratching at an unpleasant rash along the inside of her wrist, John’s mobile gave a soft _ping_. Both hands clasped in her lap, the woman explained that she worked at a florist’s — John’s phone _pinged_ again — and must have scraped herself on a crate or thorns on the stems of a plant — another text — although she had been wearing gloves. At the fourth message, the young woman asked if it was urgent.

“No,” he answered, smiling fondly, “I know who it is.”

On the way home for the evening, on a relatively quiet train, he flipped open his mobile.

_I should be returning sooner than anticipated. —SH_

_This is my mandatory update. Stay away from the flask in the microwave. —SH_

_I was just nearly hit by a bicyclist. —SH_

_Text me when you are home. —SH_

He considered waiting until he finished his errands but considered how many more messages would result from his ignoring of Sherlock’s particular brand of concern.

_Need to run to Tesco. Dinner things and detergent. Will text when home._

Stamping the snow from his shoes, John let himself into 221, plastic bags in one hand, phone secure in the other. Mrs Hudson fussed over the state of his hair and coat. Brushed snow to the doormat. Exchanged pleasantries and stories from their respective days’ activities. She noticed his attention wandering repeatedly to his mobile and ushered him upstairs claiming she had some washing up to finish.

Shoes toed off. Jacket hung to dry. Message sent to Sherlock. Groceries stowed away. Kettle on. By the time he received a reply, John made his tea, located a necktie Sherlock had borrowed for evidence comparison, and had gone upstairs to change into his sleep clothes.

_Is your webcam still operational? —SH_

Settling into bed, John rested his mug on the bedside table and pulled the duvet over his bare feet. He rummaged beneath Sherlock’s pillow to find his laptop. As the computer whirred and clicked to life (Sherlock had commended him on his choice of password as it took him just under fifty seconds longer than average to determine the correct combination of letters and numerals), he glanced back to Sherlock’s pillow. Pulled it to his lap. Leaned forward to rest his elbows on his thighs, trapping the pillow against his chest. He tipped his face to the fabric cover and inhaled. It smelled like Sherlock’s shampoo.

Scarcely twenty seconds passed between sending a message on his mobile and opening the video call program that the “Receiving Call — Answer? Decline?” interface melody began. Shifting against the headboard, he accepted the incoming feed. Slight interference of speakers. Adjustment of screen brightness. John’s breath caught in his chest for a moment. Hunched over his keyboard, dressed in one of John’s jumpers and a pair of glasses with black plastic frames, Sherlock’s face split into a genuine grin.

“Hello, you,” John laughed, reaching for his tea. He took a deep swallow of the lukewarm liquid, curling and relaxing his fingers along the sides of the mug. “How was your day?”

“Business as usual.” His voice muffled through a mouthful of what looked like soft pretzel. “Yours?”

“Fine. Got out a bit late. Some prat kept texting me through my appointments.”

“Imagine that.” Sherlock took another bite. “Perhaps if you responded, that person would not feel compelled to send multiple messages. Is that my pillow?”

John picked at a loose thread. “You steal mine when you fall asleep before m—”

He was interrupted by a distant shout and Sherlock responding, turning sharply in his chair. John took another sip of tea. Watched Sherlock stand quickly, rummaging in his pockets before handing coins to the man behind a counter in the back of the room.

“Where exactly _are_ you?” John asked when Sherlock slumped into the wooden chair.

“Hostel. In Weimar. I believe this is the common room. The kitchen is behind me and the women’s rooms are on the upstairs floor.”

“Not what I expected," he admitted, squinting into the camera. "What did you just pay for?”

“Internet access.” The sound of rapid keystrokes muted his voice before his eyes flicked back to John. “I’ve been paying for thirty minute increments. The rates for extended time are unreas—”

“Ist es Ihr Freund von zu Hause?” asked the man behind the counter.

“ _Ja_. Nun möchte ich mit ihm reden.”

John blinked. Struck by the language tumbling from Sherlock’s mouth. It sounded infinitely harsher than his biting English did, but was just as suited to his deep baritone.

“The rates are unreasonable,” he continued, “and service is horrifying anywhere other than this room.”

“Well, where’s your room?” John set his (now empty) mug on the floor and burrowed further beneath the duvet, propping himself up with Sherlock’s pillow behind his neck.

“Across the courtyard. Up a spiral staircase. The communal room is quite large, but there are few tourists this time of year. Late January seems an odd time to do little more than ski.”

“I could’ve come with you,” John reminded him.

Sherlock’s eyes dropped to his hands. “I’m nearly finished with business.”

“Benötigen Sie mehr Zeit heute Abend?”

At the second inquisition, Sherlock pushed his chair away suddenly. John waited as Sherlock gestured at the man, pushing a paper bill across the counter, and stalked back to the table, collecting his computer. The camera shuddered as he crossed the room. Sat heavily in a worn couch. He adjusted the screen and John caught a glimpse of speakers — built into steamer trunks — mounted on the wall.

John curled onto his side, pulling his laptop nearer. “Alright now?”

“Fine,” Sherlock snorted. He adjusted his glasses. “We should be covered for another three hours.”

John yawned. Rubbed a hand over his face. “I like when you speak German...”

“Wirklich? Sollte ich öfter Deutsch sprechen?”

“Even if I don’t understand a word of it.”

Sherlock laughed and the sound crackled through the tiny speakers. He spent the next two hours and twenty minutes explaining the specifics of the case (in a lowered voice, discouraging the supervisor from interrupting), sending John photos he had taken of the shopping district of the town (to maintain his tourist cover), and enduring the attentions of a pair of girls conversing excitedly in French (which Sherlock seemed fluent in as well). Silence followed.

“John? _John_.”

With a groan, he forced his eyes open. Woke quickly when adrenaline coursed through his veins.

“Oh, God, ‘m sorry,” he yawned, rearranging pillows to prop himself more squarely in the centre of the screen. “Wasting your time sleeping.”

Sherlock had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a steaming mug in his free hand. “I haven’t got much time, but, ah, I’ll be leaving within the next thirty-six hours.”

“I’ll be here. Hopefully staying out of harm’s way.”

“And John? Gute Nacht. Du fehlst mir. Ich... Ich liebe dich.”

With a drowsy chuckle, John sighed, (positive he mangled the little German he actually knew) “Ich liebe dich. Now go to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> German is not my native or secondary language, but I studied abroad for three weeks in the country last January (several nights were spent in a hostel in Weimar, which directly influenced Sherlock's experience). Many thanks to my friends who were willing to check vocabulary and grammar for me. Language translation is as follows:
> 
> “Is that your friend from home?” “ _Yes_. Now, I would like to talk to him.”
> 
> “Will you need more time tonight?”
> 
> “Really? Should I speak German more often?”
> 
> “Good night. I miss you. I... I love you.”


	9. Secret Spots and Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine Person A of your OTP taking Person B to their favorite secret spot."

Sherlock considered holidays nothing but unpleasant. Their first Christmas held at the flat ended less than spectacularly. One low tar cigarette was hardly enough to trigger his dependence. Mycroft warned him caring is not an advantage. Despite John’s disruption of his sock index, Sherlock found himself grateful after the fact. He and John did not speak of the missed Christmases during his absence. The first evening after his return had nearly prompted John to lose consciousness (he recovered quickly, secluding himself to their bedroom after a heated row and dealing a well-deserved fist to the solar plexus). Months after his return, discussion of his dissolution of Moriarty’s web of contacts and of John’s decision to remain at Baker Street was addressed once and only once before hands and lip sought familiar warmth at wrists and junctures of jaw and throat.

As November concluded and December drew nearer, an invitation arrived in the post from one Violet Holmes summoning the pair to the family home for the duration of Christmas Eve through Boxing Day. Sherlock had done his best to dissuade John’s curiosity with precautionary accounts (complaints) of cousins with insatiable appetites for gossip, overbearing maids assisting with the most menial of tasks, and the prevalent tension to be expected throughout the manor for three days and two evenings.

“When was the last you’ve spent time with your family?” John asked, shifting on the sitting room sofa to press his knee to Sherlock’s.

Whereas Sherlock immersed himself in his laptop during the train ride and his mobile for much of the cab ride, John persisted in his interrogation of all things familial and nostalgic.

“Far longer than I care to admit,” Sherlock sighed, knocking their legs together, “and not long enough to prove the extended family wrong.”

“Wrong?”

Sherlock smoothed a hand down his chest, thumbing at a wrinkle along the seam of his breast pocket. Cocked his head at the sudden, artificial laugh from the dining room. Watched Mycroft hover near the fireplace with one of their uncles, discussing the increasing oil prices in the Middle East. Counted the missing jewels in Aunt Marguerite’s ring — coloured diamante despite her fevered claim of having been gifted canary diamonds — and Aunt Regina’s brooch as they turned their noses up under his attentive gaze. Glanced at John from the corner of his eye.

“My father’s leaving was my fault. I revealed the affair with his mistress at Christmas dinner as a child. My aunts and cousins were ecstatic in their venomous hearsay, further scandalizing Mummy. It was—” He cleared his throat. “It was a childish mistake. Trying to prove my cleverness. I was sent to my room for the evening and then to Eton to ease the burden on Mummy’s weak constitution.”

John’s fingers toyed with the unruly curls at the nape of his neck; he found himself leaning into the touch, lulled by the easy rhythm of John’s chest rising and falling. Sherlock turned sharply, cheek to cheek with John.

“Hello, you,” John hummed, pressing a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s nose.

“Would you like to see where I spent most of my time before I was sent away?”

“You had a secret hiding place?”

“Is that so unbelievable?” Sherlock rose to his feet, clasping John’s hand and pulling him from the sofa.

“Not so much as difficult to imagine you as a child,” John sighed, straightening his jacket (Sherlock admired how the structure emphasized the line of John’s shoulders).

Sherlock directed him through the sitting room, past a trio of young children fighting over a tin of biscuits, and down a side hallway. They ducked through a spare bedroom and into the small library (where John clipped his elbow on the doorframe) where Sherlock remembered lying on the floor with a ruled pad of paper and outdated editions of Mycroft’s textbooks. His father would sort finances while Sherlock memorized the periodic table in order of elemental weight and capital cities of countries in the European continent in alphabetical order. The carpet smelled of pipe tobacco, lemon curd, bergamot, and shoe polish despite decades of disuse from the men of the Holmes family. Sensory memories. Extraneous data. Minutiae. Sentiment.

“An office? Library? It suits you. A place of knowledge.”

“It . . . wasn’t just the library. Here,” Sherlock murmured, sweeping to the desk.

Heavy, varnished wood with a solid front. He pushed the chair aside to reveal the space for leg clearance. Squeezing John’s fingers, Sherlock ducked beneath the lip of the desk. Legs folded to his chest, arms wrapped around his thighs, he rested his chin in the notch between his knees. He inhaled slowly. Froze at the sound of John’s throaty laugh. Before he could crawl back out, John tucked himself into the remaining space under the desk. Shins pressed flush and feet tangled, the pair wedged as close as possible, breathing the same air. Sherlock felt John lean forward to press their foreheads together. Allowing himself an earnest smile, Sherlock nestled into John’s body heat.

“I imagine you fit more easily before you turned gangly.”

“Shut up,” he laughed. “Although, admittedly, yes. It was.”

“How often would you hide in here?”

They whispered as if preserving the sanctity of holy ground. Sherlock’s chest felt tight.

“As often as I could. I often missed meals. Mummy would always be the one to find me. None of the maids knew I hid here.”

“So, if your mother always found you then . . . .”

“Yes, there’s a strong possibility that she will find us tonight. All in due time.”


	10. Fitted Sheets and Frustration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine Person A of your OTP trying to fix the sheets after a long night, but being unable to get the last corner on, so they just sit there frustrated until Person B comes and does it for them."

Over the course of the day, John supposed he should have anticipated the results of the evening. Sherlock had sprung from their bed at the first light of dawn, stumbling down the stairs to sedate an experiment left unmonitored. John washed up and shaved while Sherlock called from the kitchen claiming to need more turpentine and laundry detergent. His breakfast was interrupted when Sherlock swiped the last tin of beans and proceeded to mash the contents with mortar and pestle. Newspaper dissected and scattered throughout the sitting room. The dry cleaning lay on the couch, sleeves tangled and wrinkling. Sherlock shouted with excitement after a particularly worrisome noise resulting in a cloud of thick smoke and the lingering smell of burning rubber.

“That’s it. I’m off,” John called from the landing, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m late as it is. Sarah won’t be able to excuse any more of my absences without photographic evidence of your interference.”

“Then record the reaction present in this vial while I brush my teeth.”

“Sherl—”

Shattering glass and the sound of a body dropping to the floor. Against his better judgment, John waited. Listened for Sherlock’s response. Or lack thereof.

“Interesting. That should not have happened at such a low temperature.”

His breath left him in a rush. “As long as you’re in one piece—”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock scoffed, crawling on elbows and knees to peer through the parted sliding doors. With a flourish, he stood to lean against the wall and drew the dressing gown tighter around his waist. “Go save the young population of bacterial incubators from their afflictions.”

Resigning himself to trust Sherlock to his methods, John left for the clinic. His time dragged by as pleasant weather brought few patients with symptoms worse than sinus drainage resulting from seasonal allergies. Around lunch, he attempted to enjoy his sandwich despite Sherlock’s incessant texting. On the bus home, he was intercepted three stops before Baker Street when Sherlock rushed up the steps, past the driver, to John’s seat where he proceeded to drag him away with the promise of a closed office double homicide.

Five hours later, swaying on his feet, John stood in Lestrade’s office at the Yard while Sherlock scoffed at the necessary paperwork. He vaguely heard Donovan comment on the available measures if Sherlock were to continue resisting adherence to mandatory procedure. As the cab parked at the kerb, colour drained from Sherlock’s face and he dashed through the front door claiming to have neglected something of significance. The cabbie looked pointedly at the meter. John paid with the change from his lunch.

“Sherlock?” John called from the stairs, voice low to avoid waking Mrs Hudson. “You better not have blown anything else up while I was out.”

Decidedly not monitoring his voice, Sherlock responded, “Don’t come upstairs.”

With a hesitant inspection of the flat, John found that the dry cleaning was no longer on the couch. Newspaper no longer covered his armchair (although it was strewn haphazardly across Sherlock’s chair). The kitchen no longer smelled of scorched tar. From their shared bedroom, John heard a shuffling and a heavy _thump_ before muffled cursing travelled down the stairs.

“Honestly. _What_ are you doing?”

He shoved open the door (left ajar). Sherlock face down on the bed, arms and legs knotted in the fitted sheet. Draped over the footboard, the duvet and sheets sat heaped in a pile destined for wrinkles. Rolling to his side, Sherlock let his arms dangle over the edge of the mattress.

“I meant to have this finished,” Sherlock admitted with difficulty, “before you returned home. Lestrade called and it slipped my mind.”

“You’ve made your own bed before.”

“My bed is in the centre of the room. All four corners of the mattress are easily accessible.”

With a good-natured slap to Sherlock’s hip, John nudged him from the bed to correct the snarled travesty. He pulled the mattress away from the wall. Turned to reach for Sherlock’s hand.

“It helps if you get the farthest corner first. Then you won’t get tangled like this.”

“Tedious.”

“It isn’t if you do it correctly,” he laughed, smoothing out the sheet as Sherlock adjusted the corners at the foot of the bed. “You do realize we’ve the other sheet and duvet to do still.”

Shoving the mattress back with an exasperated groan, Sherlock collapsed against the bed, arms and legs occupying the entire space. John sighed. Rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“I suppose we could sleep downstairs tonight. As long as your bed’s clean.”

“There might be some residual odour from the litter box after watching Molly’s cat.”

“Maybe not. Budge up, then.”

John toed his shoes off and shed his jumper. Pulling the duvet from the floor, he crawled into the narrow gap between Sherlock and the wall. Curled up against Sherlock’s side.

“Why were you remaking the bed, anyway?” he yawned, enjoying the way Sherlock squirmed at the breath ghosting across his chest.

“Ah, I needed to examine the thread count. Of everything but the pillowcases.”

“Really?”

There was a pause. Sherlock shifted to throw an arm over John’s shoulder. “No.”

“I’ll ask in the morning.”


	11. Revelation and Red Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine your OTP going grocery shopping, and they run into one of their mutual friends who doesn’t yet know they are together, and they end up standing in the middle of the aisle and explaining to them that they are together now. Person A is a bit nervous about it, but Person B is not."

Sherlock looped and unwound his scarf. Around his hands. Around his wrists. Balled it around one fist and held the material to his nose. Inhaled residual smog and cigarette smoke and faint traces of basil. Both his coat and scarf needed to go to the cleaners soon. Hopefully before the shop at the end of the block closed for the evening. He heaved a sigh and scuffed his feet. Reached past John and tossed a bag of Prawn Cocktail crisps on top of the eggs, mushrooms, and rye bread. Leaned against John’s back to dig his chin into John’s shoulder.

“If I would have known this would be so difficult for you I wouldn’t have asked you to come along.” John cringed away as Sherlock pressed his lips to the softness of his jaw. “Sher— Not now.”

“There was a couple engaged in much worse near the deli,” he countered, leaving John’s side all the same. Sherlock smoothed the grocery list between his palms. Allowed his elbow to brush John’s.

John’s reluctance to express the nature of the recent development in their relationship came as no surprise to Sherlock, but he felt oddly disquieted all the same. Their first kiss had been chaste, a physical expression of the internal chemical imbalance created by entering the presence of one John Watson and remaining in personal companionship for extended periods of time. Turning down another aisle, he watched John rearrange the crisps (giving Sherlock a pointed look as he did so as if asking, “Are you really going to eat these?”) to add pasta and a jar of tomato sauce to their goods.

Coming to terms with his newly adjusted identification as a romantic partner seemed to be progressing more smoothly for himself than for John. At the time, he offered to explain the Kinsey scale if it would put John more at ease, but his suggestion was declined. Words stolen from his lips as an insistent mouth silenced him. Unconsciously, he rubbed the pad of his forefinger along his lower lip — salty from lunch — and registered a question directed at him.

Hummed and nodded.

“You have no idea what I just asked, do you?”

“Considering that we’ve stopped before the meagre wine selection it would be safe to assume that you intend to buy a bottle for tonight.”

“Good. Which one then?”

Sherlock rummaged inside the trolley. John had gotten ground beef.

“Red.”

“Which red?” John rubbed his hands over his face.

He tipped his head back. “Chianti. Classico will do although the options could be better.”

John reached instinctively for a bottle at eye level. Sherlock watched his brow furrow. Eyes scanning the label. He took a step back to look where Sherlock’s attention was trained.

“You would pick something above my reach.”

“I was hardly involved in the shelving process.”

“Just— Get it for me. Please. So we can— Sherlock, let me move!”

Sherlock crowded against John once more, one arm wrapped around John’s waist while he reached for the wine. “There’s no one else in the entire aisle. The nearest patron is a father in his late forties and his teenage daughter, both engrossed in their mobiles. I can assure you that nothing will happen.”

Chianti safely secured in his grasp, deposited into the basket, Sherlock allowed his fingers to splay against John’s stomach. He felt the shaky inhale. Exhale. Felt pressure against his chest as John leaned back into the embrace. Heard a distinctly feminine gasp after he brushed his lips along the shell of John’s ear.

Arms locking, John pulled away only to knock his elbow against the handle of the trolley. Sherlock turned sharply toward the noise only to feel his shoulders sag in pleasant surprise.

“Molly.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know— I didn’t mean to— I was just about to get something for a party tomorrow. I didn’t know you were here...”

Her voice trailed off, posture withdrawn. Flush along her cheeks matching the colouring across John’s ears and the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, we’re together now. No, we had not intended to inform anyone just yet, but you seem to have escaped my variables.” Sherlock handed the shopping list to John — fingertips brushing. “We have yet to determine what is acceptable for public affection and it appears you’ve become our first witness.”

“Oh. Well, ah.” Molly clutched the strap of her purse. “Congratulations I suppose. I just— I’m sorry.”

Sherlock swept to the side as Molly selected a (pricey) Vin Santo and ducked away.

“You think she’ll handle it well?”

“Debatable.” Sherlock glanced past John. Pressed his lips to John’s eyebrow. “Verbal fumbling. Nervous repetition. Yet she blinked less frequently than should be expected for someone experiencing distress leading to tears.”

“We are in public,” John reminded him.

Location hardly mattered to Sherlock when considering human biological responses to emotional shock, yet he conceded. Gave John a half-hearted shove between the shoulder blades and made a mental note to speak to Mrs Hudson regarding the best course of action.


	12. Books and Bony Chins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine Person A of your OTP trying to read a book on the couch in the living room. Person B walks into the living room, sees Person A reading, and somehow gets jealous of the book. In order to get Person A’s attention, Person B sits right next to Person A on the couch and begins to do little things to annoy Person A to get them to stop reading the book and pay attention to Person B instead."

John sat heavily on the sofa, leg stiff. He knew, of course, that the ache was psychosomatic (how could he not after Sherlock’s fervent reminders). It didn’t prevent the muscle from cramping up after an eight hour shift at the clinic. He could bemoan the careless patients he attended to with minor head trauma, dermal reactions from ill-kept tattoos, and the regular assortment of seasonal allergies worsened by lack of medication. Instead he chose to check his email and drink his well-deserved coffee.

Laptop stowed away, he threw an arm over the end of the sofa. Fished around in the stacks of medical journals, old newspapers, and overdue library books (Sherlock had gained a notorious reputation with the librarians for accruing impressive fines) to withdraw the latest novel from a children’s author who had recently released her first story for adults. He was only some fifty pages in but he found himself enjoying it so far. Sarah recommended it over lunch the week prior. Reading allowed him a small sense of normalcy.

No sooner had he cracked open the book — playing card marker falling into his lap — when Sherlock stormed into the sitting room. Tartan dressing gown billowing. Mobile clutched in his fist, he stalked to his chair, sat down hardly long enough for his rear end to touch the cushion, and darted into the kitchen.

“John? _John!_ ” Sherlock tossed a roll of cling wrap at him from the kitchen landing.

John licked his thumb. Turned the page. Continued reading.

“What could possibly hold your attention that is more important than our current crisis?”

“Which would be what, exactly?” He mentally braced himself for the worst.

“Lestrade has yet to contact me with a new case in over three days!”

“You do remember that the Yard isn’t affiliated with you? They don’t _have_ to consult you,” he reminded Sherlock, placing a finger at the end of a line of dialogue. “I’m sure Lestrade and his team are perfectly qualified and capable of completing their jobs.”

“Donovan told me as such.”

“Then you should trust her.”

Sherlock resumed his fuming, which allowed John to continue reading. A particular line struck him as humorous — he might have laughed aloud, he was unsure — and he looked up to see Sherlock standing at his side. John moved over slightly. Sherlock shifted, bare toes wriggling.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked, surprised to have reached the end of another chapter.

Without responding, Sherlock sat down. Wedged firmly against John’s side. Pressed together from shoulder to hip, Sherlock leaned into John and peered over his shoulder.

“Would you like me to read it to you?”

Sherlock snorted and began texting. Elbows prodding into John’s sides. Leaned further over, forcing them both sideways. Tipped against the armrest. Slapping his mobile onto the coffee table, Sherlock dropped his chin to John’s shoulder, digging into the muscle with his bony jaw.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, what the hell?” John gave Sherlock a shove, forcing him back. “I know you’re bored. Are you jealous? Of a book?”

Sherlock flushed (nearly imperceptibly, but John had learned to recognize the pinkening across the bridge of his nose). Slouched against John’s arm. Pressed his face into the fabric of John’s jumper. Mumbled into John’s chest. With a sigh, John lifted his arm and Sherlock curled into his side, dropping his head to John’s lap. Balancing the book on his knees, John carded a hand through Sherlock’s curls. Smiled at the scratching of fingernails along the side of his knee.


	13. Spoons and Sleeping on Sofas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine person A of your OTP falling asleep on the couch and when Person B gets home, they’re torn between joining person A, covering person A with a blanket, or just carrying them to bed."

Sherlock rolled his neck, cracking as it rotated along his shoulders. Shivered pleasantly. Tugged his scarf loose as he ascended the staircase (quietly as it was nearing half four in the morning). He had not intended to be out so late. Certain he used the last of his available favours from Molly. At the thought of the pathologist he patted down his pockets to reassure himself that he had indeed returned the key to the morgue. Top right drawer of her desk.

Pushing the door shut with his elbow — catching the latch at the last second to dull the sound of the lock activating — he shed his coat. Draped over his forearm. Early April and it was unusually warm. Popped open the next button of his shirt. Ran a hand through his hair. Sherlock nearly made it to the bathroom when a muffled grunt came from the couch, drawing his attention.

Face tucked into the Union Jack pillow, John’s left foot kicked as he curled in on himself. Soft pyjama pants and t-shirt twisting to reveal his stomach. John sighed the lazy, open-mouthed exhale of sleepers unaware. Sherlock remained still. Rooted to the floor. John had waited for him to come home but had fallen asleep. Guilt bubbled in his stomach. His nose wrinkled as he attempted to shake off the unpleasant feeling.

John was a grown man, Sherlock reasoned as he deposited the Belstaff and suit jacket in his bedroom. Untied his shoes to be left by the bed. John did not have to wait for him in order to go to bed, Sherlock told himself as he used the toilet, washed his hands, brushed his teeth. It was not as if he had promised John he would return by a certain time, Sherlock considered as he lurched to a halt. Correct. He had told John he would be gone for as long as it took to sort the fingerprints gathered from the scene.

Being unable to excuse John for looking so pliant and uncomfortable on the couch, Sherlock wrung his hands. Once. Enough. None of that. Shook out his wrists. He was certainly able to carry John’s weight (as determined by a prior case when a poorly landed jump strained John’s right ankle, triggering the psychosomatic limp and leaving his legs weak) but it had resulted in John being uncharacteristically reclusive for the remainder of that evening. Sherlock discarded the idea of carrying John to bed. Upstairs would never be possible. Downstairs seemed likely in the event of a future emergency.

He noticed the open window in the sitting room. John must have left it propped. It was still much too warm to cover him in a blanket and leave him to his sleep. Sherlock turned on heel to dash up to John’s (their) bedroom. Gathered their pillows to his chest. Padded back down to the couch in footsteps as soft as possible in socked feet. Pillows wedged beneath his chin, Sherlock gazed down at John. Asleep through his travelling about the flat.

Leaning down to press a kiss to John’s temple, he jerked back. John’s eyes fluttered open — eyelashes long and pale.

“What time—”

“Move over.” Sherlock held out the pillow (his).

Clutching the second pillow to his nose, Sherlock inhaled John’s scent from the fabric. Rolled up his shirtsleeves. Waited for John to arrange himself against the back of the couch. Settling in to the worn cushion (his back to John’s soft, warm stomach), Sherlock felt John throw an arm around his ribs. Hips slotted together. Knees fit together. Sherlock felt the first rumblings of John’s snoring against his spine.


	14. Bones and Bed Hogging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine your OTP cuddling in bed asleep, when person A hogs the bed and accidentally pushes person B off."

John quickly came to realize a change in the atmosphere of 221B. Following Sherlock’s return, fewer evening hours were spent holed up in abandoned warehouses (stake outs and reconnaissance missions) or arguing over who opened the last tin of beans and forgot to go shopping (surprisingly, it was John). Sherlock rarely played the violin during hours between sunset and sunrise.

Rather, John would rise from his chair — turned more toward the fireplace in these bleak months — and leave to wash up for the night. Sherlock followed. Brushing his teeth while John used the toilet. Dashing to remove his shoes by the front door before shadowing John up the stairs. Curling up against the warm plane of John’s chest. Dropping into sleep.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that Moriarty and his network were no longer a physical threat. It might have been the newfound comfort of a consistent place to rest his head. John tried not to think about Sherlock as a nomad, drifting along the web. Snapping threads between his sure fingers. John shook himself. Tightened his grip on the unresponsive bundle of muscle and cotton. Bony feet flat against the wall. He tucked his face into the curve of Sherlock’s throat.

He had come home from the clinic to find Sherlock in bed, curled tight on his side with covers drawn up to his chin. Pinpoints of broken capillaries freckling the soft skin under his eyes. John had only seen Sherlock cry once — horrible, sobbing gasps for breath and coughing around the phlegm in his chest, face screwed up (like a child) against the torrent of vulnerability — but it produced the same result.

In these moments of recovery, he slipped into bed. Whispers of fabric and of his voice. A soft kiss. Winding his arms around Sherlock in passive reassurace. Sherlock never failed to surprise him in the way he enjoyed being the (colloquial) little spoon. Enjoyed hands on his face, in his hair, on his stomach. Thighs. Skin skin skin. Touch sufficed when words failed between them. Moving against each other with fractured, breathy sounds. Sweaty arms and legs tangled.

This particular morning, John clung to Sherlock like a limpet. Ivy along a wall. Fingerprints to glass. Willing Sherlock to stay asleep to clear away whatever had frightened him into their bed before six in the evening. Sherlock would deny the incident. If John were to inquire, he would most likely be requested to make coffee and bring their laptops to bed. John dipped his nose into the curve of a collarbone. Sherlock grunted. Shifted in his sleep.

Joints locked, Sherlock uncurled and stretched. Legs shaking beneath the sheets. John muffled his snort of laughter against the skin before his mouth. Kissed the soft throat. Sherlock grunted again. Rolled onto his back. Arched. Settled with a sigh. John rubbed an open palm over Sherlock’s ribs — bumping his fingertips against the still prominent bones. Sherlock flinched. Shoved against him weakly. With a yawn, he rolled to face John. And stretched. Shoving John to the edge of the mattress.

“Sherlock,” he hissed. “ _Sherlock_. Wait, stop, let me—”

John cursed as he scrabbled at the sheets, dragging the entire duvet to the floor with him. Catching his breath in a rush, he held still. He counted his pulse pounding in his ears. Eleven, twelve, thirteen— Blinked up at the head of curls appearing over him.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?” He felt fingers tapping at his forehead. Curling in his fringe.

“Why’re you on the floor? With the sheets?”

“Good morning, love,” John sighed.


	15. Skin and Scar Tissue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine Person A kissing Person B’s scars."

Sherlock felt his mouth go dry. Tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth. Formed to the curve of his teeth. Of course he had seen John bare-chested before. John could claim the same (it still seemed hardly necessary to change into trousers for Buckingham Palace when his sheet had sufficed). That did nothing to ease the reactionary flush across his cheeks and down his throat as John’s appraising gaze lingered. Sherlock berated himself for feeling as if the attention were a tangible presence on his skin. He nervously rubbed a palm across his chest. Shifted forward on the duvet. Reached for John.

Their mouths fit together — lips overlapping, Sherlock shivered at the press of teeth against his lower lip — and John’s hands wrapped around his forearms. Thumbs swiping idly across pulse points. Sherlock inhaled. Shallow breaths through the nose. Eyes half-lidded in easy familiarity watching the way John’s brows rose and pinched. A tongue against his lips. Sherlock rose to his knees. Bracketed John’s thighs with his own. Twisted his wrists within their vices to clasp John’s arms. John’s legs tensed between his. Stripped to the waist (bright white elastic band visible over the waist of John’s pyjamas meant the scarlet briefs), they revelled in the heat shared between their chests.

Sherlock sat back on John’s thighs. Pressed against the mouth on his. Tipped to gain control of John’s lips. Teeth clacked together. Noses bumped. Rhythm lost. In vain attempt to free himself from John’s grip, Sherlock inadvertently caused the fingers on his wrists to slide up to the dip of his inner elbows. John froze. Pulled away. Sherlock watched the realization dawn in his face (blinking rapidly, pupils dilated, then). Leaned in to brush kisses along the softness of John’s cheek, corner of his mouth, tip of his upturned nose.

He was denied acknowledgement. John slipped his hands beneath Sherlock’s elbows. Brought the pale forearms near. Could not have missed the faded (faded, certainly faded by now, how could they not have faded) stippling of old injection sites. Years ago. Ages ago. Sherlock abruptly hated the pallor of his skin and the way blood rose to the surface so quickly to form blisters, bruises, scars.

“Don’t,” he croaked, voice soft and frightened. He had not meant to sound afraid.

“Don’t what?” John let the left arm drop. Touched his fingertips to Sherlock’s: swept up his palm, up his wrist, forearm, crease of the elbow.

“Please. It was in the past and is not a concern now as I—”

Flash of tongue against lips. Brush of lips against elbow. Slightest of imprints, saliva cooling on the skin.

“Are you—”

“Kissing it to make it better? No,” John laughed, sitting farther back. Sherlock readjusted his weight. Alleviated pressure on the right leg in case of psychosomatic flare-up.

“Would you like me to?”

Focused on the voice before him rather than the warm breath against his arm. “To what?”

“Kiss it—” another press of lips “—and make it better.”

Sherlock offered his other arm. John attended to the flesh which appeared freckled if one did not know better. Typically passed for freckles. John was always the outlier. Lips downturned against pale skin. Forehead creasing with unnecessary emotion (regret for an incident he wished to have averted yet had no control over). Sherlock licked his lips. Mouth — gently — to the entry of John’s scar. Hitched breath. Another kiss. Hushed whisper to “sit up, let me lie back.” Reclined against each other. Sherlock’s fingers in the fine hair on John’s chest. Conducting electrical current through a closed circuit. Lips against each other’s skin. Dead flesh reminders of what brought them to each other.


	16. Bedrooms and Borrowed Pyjamas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine your OTP trying to get comfortable with each other in bed."

Just after one o’clock in the morning, Sherlock slipped from his chair. Crossed the sitting room to reach for John. Carefully took the mug from his hand (set it on the coffee table) and jerked him from his seat on the sofa. Arms braced between his chest and Sherlock’s, John cleared his throat. Felt fingers curled around his wrists lingering feather light on the skin.

“Time for bed,” Sherlock said as if it were apparent. “Is that not customary for couples in romantic relationships?”

“I, ah—” John swallowed reflexively. “It can be. Depends on the couple.”

Sherlock looked apprehensive. Immediately released. His hands fluttered at his waist, over his thighs, and dropped to his sides.

“Would you like it to be customary? In our . . .”

“Relationship?”

They faced each other — separated by the coffee table — under the weight of their signifier. John reached for the belt of Sherlock’s dressing gown. Looped it around his fingers. Leading Sherlock to the hall, he brought their foreheads together. Warm hands cupped his cheeks and thumbed along the line of his jaw. John felt the apprehension in Sherlock’s brow slip away as they grounded each other in the simplicity of the gesture. Breath leaving his lungs in a burbling, giddy rush of laughter, John twisted his fingers into the curls at the nape of the warm neck beneath his palm.

“Of course, you idiot. I can’t believe you’re actually tired.”

“Fifty-two hours without sleep has currently proven to be too much for my capabilities,” Sherlock admitted, bare toes flexing.

With considerable effort, John swallowed his doctor’s response in favor of genuine concern (just shy of coddling, a tone Sherlock abhorred with his entire being). “Want to go to your room? Would you sleep better there? More familiar?”

A nod against his forehead.

John pulled away and considered slipping an arm around Sherlock’s waist. Guiding him into bed. Briefly — _briefly_ — entertained the notion of tucking the man in before joining him. One look at the crease between Sherlock’s brows convinced him otherwise. This was a moment in which Sherlock needed to feel secure, not vulnerable. Brushing his lips against Sherlock’s, slanting their mouths together (faint sweetness of sugar in black tea), John kissed him once. Twice. Heard the low hum reverberating in Sherlock’s chest. Peppered kisses along cheekbones, eyebrows, eyelids. John laughed at the sudden transition from contentment to affronted shock as Sherlock flinched away.

“I could make you sleep on the floor,” Sherlock warned, leading John to his room.

“You might,” he agreed, “but you won’t.”

They detoured. Stopped in the bathroom to brush teeth and wash faces, cleaning away tension from the course of the day. Stripping down to pyjamas as he crossed the threshold to his bedroom, Sherlock paused at the side of the bed. John lingered while unbuttoning his shirt.

“I suppose we should choose sides,” he offered as he stepped out of his jeans. “Unless you have a side—”

“I sleep in the middle.” Sherlock crawled over the centre of the mattress. Reached his chest of drawers to rummage through indexed clothing. “Would you like a pair of sleep pants?”

John caught the soft cotton as it hit his chest. He sat on the edge of the mattress, tying the drawstring and turning up the hems (fully aware they would certainly come undone in the middle of the night). “Are you uncomfortable with me in my underwear?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock scoffed. He spread himself across the bed, fingers hooking in the waistband of John's pyjamas.

John slapped at the intruding digits. Cold fingertips against the soft curve of his back. Laying back, his head cradled in the valley of Sherlock’s lap. Fingers drumming against the mattress, Sherlock sat firmly against the headboard. John rolled to his side. Shuffled on his knees to sit alongside the length of Sherlock’s extended legs.

“This won’t work,” Sherlock sighed and John recoiled, nearly having placed a kiss on those (now mobile) lips. “I sleep in the middle of my bed. Motionless, for the most part, as I am often too physically exhausted even for motion on an unconscious level. You sleep soundly as well. I hardly ever hear you shift in your sleep. Years of training in the army. Both of us sleeping in such a large bed would leave a sizable distance between our bodies.”

“And?” John prompted, curious.

Sherlock’s mouth screwed up as if he bit his own lip. “It won’t work.”

“Won’t work for what? What could you possibly—”

“How are we to sleep together, sleep in the same bed, comfortably with space between ourselves?”

“It happens every evening somewhere in the world,” John responded. Allowed himself that kiss. Sherlock pressed back insistently, arms wrapping around his waist.

“But I enjoy this. This physical contact.”

“You think we won’t touch while we’re sleeping?”

John watched Sherlock struggle before confessing.

“I want to sleep like _this_.” He emphasized by squeezing John’s middle. “Embracing.”

“You want to spoon?”

“If that is the colloquialism, yes, that is what I would prefer. It won’t be possible in this bed.”

“Of course it will—”

“John, it would be better in your bed! Hurry!”

With that, Sherlock grabbed his pillow and prodded John to the door, through the sitting room (“Sherlock, my bed isn’t going anywhere! I don’t understand the rush here!”), up the stairs, and froze at the door to the second bedroom. As before, John waited for Sherlock. Stooped to redo the turn-ups on his borrowed pyjamas. Felt fingers tapping against his shoulder. Catching the trembling hand (Sherlock was clearly more tired than he let on), John kissed the knuckles.

Sherlock opened the door abruptly and stepped into John’s room. Dragged him to the bed tucked in the far corner of the room. He collapsed face first, pillow crushed under his stomach. John tugged at the duvet. Sherlock rolled onto his side. Slipped under the covers, faced the wall, and curled in on his limbs. John stretched — arms over his head, knees bent and released, rotating at the waist — before he followed. Arm draped loose over the dip of Sherlock’s waist, he yawned. Jolted at the sudden alignment of a warm body along his front. Slotted into John’s open arms, Sherlock wriggled until his shoulder blade fit into the gap of John’s armpit and his arse fit into the curve of John’s groin.

“This your way of asserting yourself as little spoon?”

Rather than a coherent response, John received a contented sigh. He nosed at the exposed skin of Sherlock’s shoulder. Felt cold feet slip between his ankles. John yawned again and felt himself settling into sleep.


	17. Arguments and Arsenic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine your OTP getting into a heated argument and person A accidentally confesses their love for person B out of frustration."

Staring down at his work space, Sherlock swallowed. Scrubbed shaking hands through his hair. Felt his dress shirt constrict his chest with each deep intake of breath. On the kitchen table where there should have been six test samples five were absent. Solitary on a ceramic plate remained one lone (inconspicuous) milk chocolate digestive biscuit. Five were missing. Five should _not_ have been missing. Breath shallow in his lungs, Sherlock whirled to the refrigerator. The microwave. The sink. Slamming doors and drawers and throwing flannels about as he restrained himself from tearing apart the entire kitchen.

Stumbling back to the table, he gripped the sturdy rounded edge of the wood. Smooth under his fingertips. Gouge scraped into the centre from a scimitar (of which John still knew nothing). Inventory on the table included: one microscope, one rack of test tubes (liquid solution curing in the glass vials), two packages of airline peanuts, maps of the London and New York subway systems, four dinner plates (including the blue plate with the chipped edge). Sherlock found a child’s crayon drawing (mail from young fans), two photos of a young woman for a fraud case, ink-stained copy paper, one written list of potential toxins, and one digestive from a batch of poisoned samples.

Head snapping up, Sherlock inhaled. Faint scent of artificial lemon. Cleaning products. John cleaned before leaving for the clinic. John had a fondness for digestive biscuits — especially chocolate ones — and left the plate on a different quadrant of the table. John in the sitting room drinking tea and reading the newspaper. Sherlock shouted as he tore the entertainment section from John’s hands. Grabbed John’s face and tilted him further into the light cast by the lamp. John protested (loudly) as Sherlock prodded at his cheeks, throat, and stomach.

“Are you feeling faint? Dizzy? Any headaches or general confusion throughout the afternoon?”

“Right now, yes to the last three, you great idiot,” John spluttered. “What in the hell is going on?”

Undeterred, Sherlock continued, “Any stomach pain? Diarrhoea? Vomiting?”

“Jesus, Sherlock! No!” John shoved him away. Pulled down his shirt from where Sherlock had rucked it up to palpate the flesh above his navel.

Their voices reached an unreasonable volume. Sherlock gesticulated wildly. “Nothing at all?”

“What have you done?”

“Where are the rest of those biscuits?”

“The _what?_ ”

Hands (again) on the firm slope of John’s throat, Sherlock held him at arms’ length. “Chocolate digestives, John, did you eat them?”

“Of course not! I know better than to go about eating things near your bloody experiments!”

“Where are they? This is imperative!”

“For the love of God . . .” John let his head fall back — exposing the swell of his Adam’s apple. “Why is it suddenly so important?”

“I was testing the effects of arsenic on sweets for the McMillan case and left the plate near my maps. You cleaned this morning. I can still smell the pungent bleach you use on every surface of that kitchen—”

“That kitchen should be disinfected more often at the rate you muck it up with your experiments!”

“—and I need to know that you did not, emphatically did not, eat those damned things!”

“No! I didn’t! Are you happy?”

“No!”

“Of course not,” John groaned. “Why?”

“Because I still don’t know where they are!” Sherlock shouted (hands suddenly cold from lack of circulation). “Arsenic is colourless and odourless. Unless you were currently exhibiting symptoms of poisoning there would be no way to know if you had ingested any of the toxin!”

“Arsenic. Sherlock, Christ, I hit the table. The plate fell, all of those biscuits fell. Except the one. I didn’t eat them. They’re not in the bin. I wrapped them in cling film and put them back on the table. You must have covered them back up!”

Mouth slack, Sherlock stood with his hands curled around John’s shoulders. Shook him once. Dashed back to the kitchen. Rummaged through the copy paper, maps, and newspapers to find a stack of chocolate digestives. Head swimming, he sank into a chair at the table.

“There you go.”

He was grateful that John’s voice was void of smug triumph. A hand landed on his back. He flinched.

“Right where I told you they were. Now, why was it so _necessary_ that you—”

“I thought you had eaten them although all evidence of your experience as a medical student and physician at a clinic proves there is no margin of the possibility. However, if there had been a lapse in your judgment. A temporary error. An inconceivable chance that you had ingested arsenic the fault would be mine.” Sherlock pushed back in the chair, wood shrieking as the floor ground against the chair legs. “It would be my fault because my own insufferable emotional dedication to your safety and wellbeing is hinged on the continuation of your survival. Killing you would effectively sever the tie I blindly maintain because as a motivation, l—”

“Sherlock.”

“Why would I harbour those emotions—”

“Sherlock!”

“Emotion makes one vulnerable and lowering my guard threatens you as well! Love has no place in my life yet I feel it! For you.”

He gripped the seat beneath him. Watched recognition filter across John’s face. Felt the blood drain from his own face. With that, Sherlock stormed from the kitchen (chair clattering to the floor behind him), through the hall, ignored John trailing behind him and the hand on his elbow. At the door, he shrugged off John’s touch. Enclosed himself within his coat. Left the flat with John (and Mrs Hudson calling from her doorway) shouting at the head of the staircase. Letting the street door slam, Sherlock stalked off toward Regent’s Park without his mobile.


	18. Kisses and Chamomile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine your OTP kissing for the first time after holding it back for so long."

John eventually brought his empty mug to the kitchen. Tried his best to organize papers thrown to the floor in Sherlock’s distress. Waited until half one in the morning before silencing Sherlock’s mobile and resigning himself to bed for the evening. Seven hours later he woke for a clinic shift. Only during his (brief) lunch did John feel an uncertain tremor curl into his chest. Mouth full of wheat bread (crusts on), cheddar, tomato, and chicken. He swallowed a bite nearly too large for his oesophagus and coughed. Twelve hours had passed and he had no way of knowing whether or not Sherlock returned to the flat while he was at work. Something like guilt settled over the sandwich in his stomach.

Which was absurd bearing in mind that the question of blame never entered the discourse prior to Sherlock’s departure. John dismissed the thought. Proceeded to finish his (lacklustre, pre-packaged) lunch in order to return to diagnosing minor ailments. By the end of the shift, the highlight of his afternoon was attempting to check a mother’s blood pressure while she held a squalling toddler in her lap. Walking home, John began to text Sherlock requesting a list of what shopping needed to be done. Phone returned to his pocket. Thought to buy a package of chocolate digestives once his key was in the lock to the street door. Too late to return for a token which might not be well received.

Dinner was made in a quiet kitchen — sounds only generated from the range, the knife on a wooden cutting board, fork and knife clattering against a plate — and eaten in a quiet sitting room. Just after eight o’clock Mrs Hudson knocked on the door. Let herself in with a pot of herbal sleep tea (John reluctantly found himself developing a taste for the mint and chamomile).

“Have you heard from Sherlock then?” she asked, smoothing the neckline of her housecoat.

“He left his mobile.” John stared into the mug. Errant leaves swirling with the sugar crystals refusing to dissolve.

“Don’t worry, dear. He’ll turn up. He knows his way back to the flat.”

A surprised laugh bubbled within John’s mouth. Cleared his throat. Settled back into the sofa. “He left his mobile.”

“You said so already.”

“I had to turn off the ringer because he kept getting texts. In the middle of the night.”

“If he does loves you he’ll come back.”

“You heard that?” John drained the last of his tea, avoiding the sympathetic look she gave him. “Of course you did.”

“I’ll leave the tea here for the night. Don’t worry yourself over him.” Mrs Hudson patted his (good) knee and let herself out.

Sherlock did not come home that evening. Or that morning. Or that afternoon. John was in Tesco after work, balancing an armload of shopping in front of a shelf of crisps, when his phone chimed in his pocket. Thinking nothing of it, he proceeded to pay for (impeded once again by the Chip and PIN) and bag his shopping. Hands free, he dug out the mobile. One message received.

_Your assistance is required in profiling a suspect. If amenable, come home. —SH_

He considered delaying his return to the flat. However, he had bought chicken breasts and milk for dinner. Wasting food was not worth the small satisfaction he might receive. Sherlock had never addressed 221B as “home” before. That held more significance than petty miscommunication. Resulting in an unintentional emotional confession. John scrubbed a hand over his face. In his heart of hearts he was unsure how he felt for the man. Prior to the two days of Sherlock’s absence from the flat he would not have even thought “heart of hearts.” Sherlock was a singular man with an undeniable — indelible — influence.

John let himself into the flat. Wiped his feet on the mat. Ascended the stairs to find the door to their landing ajar. As if nothing happened (masking or suppressing further reaction to the event), Sherlock paced down and back through the hall between the sitting room and his bedroom. Fingers steepled at his lips. Hair wild. Eyes dark and ringed with shadows.

“When did you get h— back?” John sidestepped Sherlock’s path. Ducked into the kitchen.

“Inconsequential.”

“Ah, of course. Where did you go?”

“Out.”

“Did you sleep? Anywhere?”

“Lestrade’s. His wife was away on business. Still uncertain in regards with whom she’s having an affair.”

Bread on the counter. Meat and milk in the refrigerator. “Did you eat?”

A haughty snort.

“Would you eat if I made dinner? Because I plan to. Right now.” John shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over a kitchen chair. “So you’ll have to pace around me if you need more room.”

Which Sherlock seemed to take literally, completing circuits around the table and bumping into John at the sink. Catching Sherlock by the elbow, John and drew him near. Fingers still wet from washing his hands, water beading down palms and wrists, John tilted his head. Slipped his hand around Sherlock’s temple. Around the shell of his ear. John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead (curly hair stuck to his lips).

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not sure yet. Let me,” John hesitated. Bottom lip caught between teeth. “Let me try again.”

“No, not if this is some sort of, of, _jape_. I suppose if this is your way of mocking me I should have been more prepared.” Sherlock reached for a dry flannel on the counter. Dried John’s hands. “I expected better of you but my judge of character could be weakening since you became the bedrock for my understanding of . . . acceptable behaviour.”

“Just— Hold on. I’m not winding you up.”

“Says the one who kissed me.”

“That was hardly a real kiss.”

“I believe the definition of kissing is any touch with the lips as a sign of affection, sexual desire, admiration, or salutation.”

“Then I suppose it was a sign of affection. Maybe—” His voice failed him. “Maybe some desire.”

“We’ll have to talk about this.” Sherlock sounded slightly breathless (cheeks growing pink with veins dilating beneath the skin) as his eyes flickered over John’s face. Lingered on John’s mouth. “Do it again.”

“Then we’ll talk?”

“Of course.” He leaned forward to (gracelessly) crush their lips together.


	19. Waking and Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine Person A is awake, and they are waiting on person B to wake up. Person A gets back in bed with Person B and snuggles with them."

It was far too early in the morning (even for the standards which Sherlock upheld) to be awake. It was a ghastly hour. Sherlock craned his neck to see over John’s arm. They had tumbled into bed together just after dinner, stomachs warm with homemade stew, collapsing onto Sherlock’s bed for once. Files stuffed with papers and shoeboxes filled with photographs collected from the victim’s home had been retired to the closet in a fit of frustration. Subsequently, this left the duvet free of case-solving detritus. Hours later — tangled and stifling in his dress shirt — after they had quickly fallen asleep, Sherlock found himself awake at just past three o’clock in the morning.

Settling into the solid weight of John’s arm around his waist (John’s stomach gurgling against the small of his back), he absently scratched at his chin. Stubble. Hardly ever unshaven. Irrationally compelled to shave. More demanding urge to wriggle free of the embrace in order to use the toilet. Weaving his fingers between John’s (flash of bubbling emotion in the swell of his heart) and marvelling at the sheer broadness of his palm across John’s clenched fingers. He was nearly to the door when his bedmate snored. Snorted. Woke himself.

Hunched over slightly as he stood near the bathroom, Sherlock held his breath.

“Where’re you goin’?” John’s fingers clutched at the empty space on the mattress.

“I need to use—”

“Wha? C’mere,” John grunted, still half awake.

“I need— No, wait, don’t get up.” Sherlock slouched back to the bed to lie John down. Kissed the corner of his upturned mouth. Brushed back hair to kiss John’s forehead. Before Sherlock’s lips even left the skin, John was asleep.

Bladder appeased, toilet flushed, shirt discarded, waistband of briefs readjusted from where they pinched against the skin (leaving marks along his hipbones). Sherlock wedged himself under John’s arm and willed himself to fall asleep. Willed himself to sleep. Closed his eyes more tightly. Flinched awake as John shifted and pulled Sherlock from his side of the bed to slightly on top of John’s chest. Half on his right arm and half on his back, Sherlock strained to see the clock. Not even half three in the morning.

Rational thought reminded Sherlock he could easily slip away and seclude himself in the kitchen working on decoding a cipher code from an unsolved case to which Lestrade begrudgingly granted Sherlock access three days prior. Sentiment reminded Sherlock of the look on John’s face upon being greeted with a kiss (and unfortunate morning breath) upon waking up in the hours before an afternoon without clinic work. Rolling over — careful of elbows and knees — he turned onto his stomach and draped over John. Lips along the ridge of a collarbone, he waited for John to wake and card his hands through Sherlock’s hair.


	20. Constellations and Couches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Imagine your OTP loving to stargaze, but living in a city where the sky is blocked by smog. So they lie on a roof and make constellations out of airplanes and the lights from cell towers instead, and fall asleep in each others arms."

In retrospect, John supposed Sherlock’s interest in the structural integrity of their roof should have been more of a concern. He arrived home from the pub one evening (met Lestrade for a pint) to find Sherlock in the upstairs bedroom, halfway out the window reaching for the fire escape. After a moment where the breath fled from his lungs — saw black around the edges of his vision as he nearly collapsed — John dragged Sherlock away from the gaping maw of the window overlooking the alley behind the flat. Dimmed and distorted light and sound. Sherlock’s palms on his cold pale cheeks. Weeks where either of them did not address the situation. Window firmly latched for the remainder of March and most of April.

In the last days of the month, John sat in the kitchen typing up a case summary for the blog. A sharp chin dug into his scalp.

“I am expressing interest in a brief experiment but seeking your consent as the results also affect your living conditions.”

“I am busy, if you hadn’t noticed.” Swatting at fingers determined to type more quickly than his accustomed speed. “I’d like to think that would convince you. I know it won’t. Just. Let me finish before you go about dismantling my property.”

“Please,” Sherlock scoffed. Tugged the chair away from the table. “You’ve typed, deleted, and reworded the sentence structure of this paragraph fourteen times. Fifteen if you include the addition of a semicolon where it would be prudent to simply separate the clauses.”

John slouched. Straightened uncomfortably as a muscle pinched in his lower back.

“I want to temporarily rearrange the furniture,” Sherlock suggested.

“Rearrange the… Where? Christ, it’s nine o’clock in the evening! This is hardly the time—”

“It’s not as if I suggested moving your bed. Just in the sitting room. ” Sherlock dropped a kiss to his forehead. “Specifically the couch.”

Moving said couch from against the wall (wallpaper still riddled with holes although the paint was washed off during Sherlock’s absence) did not constitute a “brief” endeavour. Coffee table cleaned, papers sorted and indexed. Couch dragged to the middle of the room and turned to face the window. Dishes taken to the sink to be washed up later. Sherlock wandered upstairs with an armful of books as John vacuumed the rug beneath where the couch originally sat. Sherlock had the decency to look thankful when he returned. One hand cradled his laptop to his chest. His other fingers tugged at the belt of his dressing gown.

“You changed into pyjamas? Already?” John collapsed to the couch (successfully situated before one of the windows overlooking the street).

“It is evening. Is that not the societal norm for wearing my bedclothes?”

“Says the one who sulks about for days on end in sleep pants,” John teased, catching Sherlock about the waist. Pressed a kiss to the dip of his breastbone. “What’s gotten into you?”

“We need to stay awake until midnight.”

“What for?” A quick glance to his watch confirmed at least another hour of waking awareness on John’s part.

Sherlock practically vibrated with nervous energy as he paced. Unlocked and opened the window. Rushed back to curl against John’s side.

John wrapped an arm around Sherlock and yawned. “Still too much smog to see much of anything.”

“Not so,” Sherlock countered, his lips against the collar of John’s shirt. “Just at the top of the window. Three points of light. Avis Major.”

John squinted. Two of the three lights moved slowly across the night sky. “Those aren’t even stars. That’s a cell tower and two aeroplanes.”

“Of course they are, John.” Aggravation in Sherlock’s voice was palpable. “Aeroplane. Avis. Bird? It isn’t that difficult of a stretch...”

Sherlock curled further into the couch, knees digging into John’s hip. They sat breathing in each other’s silence. A dog barked somewhere down the street. A car alarm went off with a shriek (quickly silenced).

“Then that must be a comet. Look at the tail.” John pointed at a larger, brighter light streaking behind a commercial jet.

Fifty-some minutes spent in intermittent silence, spent constructing imaginary constellations, spent with lips pressed together soft and sucking and pliant. John’s hand slipped further along the downy skin of Sherlock’s stomach and nearly passed the waistband of his pyjamas when Sherlock made a shocked noise. Bit John’s lip in his haste tumbling away to the window.

“Damn it, Sherlock! What the hell possessed you to do—?”

“Yes, yes, sorry. Here,” he offered, kissing John’s abused mouth. “It’s midnight! Just there past the clouds stacking up and past your ridiculous Vidivici Usurpus or whatever you called that helicopter—”

“I thought it was clever!”

“Very clever. Look at the tail of Ursa Major. Alioth, Mizar, and Alkaid. Just past the arc of the handle.”

“Wait, you deleted the solar system.”

“Not entirely.”

“You had to make room for two hundred and forty types of tobacco ash.”

“Two hundred forty-three. That is beside the point as right now I am revealing to you that you were r-right.” His mouth twisted momentarily over the confession. “As I was saying. Just past the arc. [That’s Boötes; the brightest star there is Arcturus](http://johnfuckingwatson.tumblr.com/post/56383530929).”

Shoulders wedged into the window frame, fingers tangled together with Sherlock’s, John smiled. Turned to see the faintest rise of colour in Sherlock’s face. Tipped to rest their foreheads together. Followed when Sherlock lead him upstairs into bed. Listened to the steady filling and emptying of Sherlock’s lungs. Fell asleep with the most sentimental consulting detective tucked against his chest.


End file.
